


Wings

by elspunko



Category: Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elspunko/pseuds/elspunko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Agent Castiel Novak is sure Dean Winchester is the man responsible for creating angels to watch over him.  Fusion with NBC's Hannibal, specifically episode 5, Coquilles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post by homeycas on Tumblr, so thank you for coming up with such a great idea! This is my first fic for Supernatural and Hannibal, so naturally, I went super dark.

Castiel hates the FBI interrogation rooms. They’re not used often, at least not in the cases on which Cas consults; strings of serial murders usually resolve themselves in the field, usually with a fair amount of blood and some bullets. But sometimes the suspect doesn’t run or put up a fight; he allows himself to be taken to one of these dark rooms, terribly lit with industrial furniture that does nothing to catch the rays of the yellowed light bulb. They’re the ones who are confident, overtly so, the ones positive that they’ll be leaving after their conversation ends and walking out of the station without harassment. It’s not born of cockiness or delusions of their own ability to hide in plain sight; this is where the ones who understand the system go. The ones that know that a conversation that doesn’t begin with guns drawn won’t end with handcuffs and rights being read. 

And their unsub is very familiar with the system. His name has been listed in connection with dozens of crimes since he was a teenager – nothing concrete, nothing that stuck, but plenty of accusations that suggest a proclivity for brutality, including the slaughtering of an entire police station. He seems to leave whatever town he’s in before any case can materialize against him, and with no evidence, it’s all fizzled out. But Cas sees it in him when they lead him into the blackened room, sees the twitch of his jaw and the way his gaze bounces, looking for the darkness and sickness inside the nearby agents. He wants to turn them into angels, too, force them to die in his honor and for his protection.

Uriel’s the one who goes to interrogate him, because Cas doesn’t do so well with people, but the man just sits there, staring at Cas’ superior while he tries to get him to talk. And then Uriel gives up on asking questions and just sits, letting the silence fill the room until it deafens the viewing area. Cas knows it’s him, even if they can’t quite prove it yet – Dean Winchester fits the profile completely. White male in his thirties, tragedy in his family - both his parents passed away, his mother when he was a toddler, and his brother’s death last year sent him into a psych hospital for six months. He was anything but model, constantly getting into fights and drawing angels on every surface he could find. His medical records don’t show any record of a chronic illness, but then again, his health forms from his time at the Baltimore State Hospital seem to be the first time he’s been around medical professionals in at least ten years. It’s the closest they get to a slam dunk in Behavioral Sciences, so Cas is content to stand behind the one-way glass as long as it takes for Winchester to confess, or at least give them probable cause for a warrant. He knows it’s coming, it has to be, and he’s always been good at waiting.

Uriel doesn’t seem quite as willing to wait. He opens a file folder, filled with images of the crime scenes and information on Winchester, and flips through the photos until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s slid across the table, placed directly in front of the unsub. “Recognize that?”

Cas can’t see what’s in the photo, but he can tell it’s not one of the crime scenes. One of Winchester’s drawings, then. He drew a few different kind of angels, but the variation stopped as his time there went on. By the time of his release, he was only drawing angels with rounded wings. When he colored in his drawings, the wings and the body were the same color, save a small line of red that bordered the wings. The same red that dripped to the floor and pooled under the angels’ feet. After months of searching, he’d found his perfect design.

Winchester smirks at the image. “Pretty picture. Did you make this just for me?” The first words he’s said since they arrived at his hotel room, but he doesn’t seem bothered by having to remain mute. He revels in it, Cas notes; enjoys the quiet, but why? Because then he doesn’t risk giving himself away? Because it gives him time to study Uriel?

Uriel shakes his head, an easy smile tugging at his lips. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have this sort of gift. You, though, you’re just incredible. You managed to draw this angel – a very specific style – four months before we saw it in person. So tell me, Dean.” He leans forward, dropping his voice. “Are you clairvoyant?”

Cas nods, even though Uriel can’t see him. He’d noticed some of the items in Winchester’s hotel room when they took him in for questioning – thick, crumbling books on the bed, candles and symbols on the nightstands and the wall over the bed. He was obviously a man who believed in the supernatural. Cas hadn’t gotten a chance to mention it to Uriel before they arrived, so he was glad to see it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Using the drawings of a crazy person as evidence?” Winchester clicks his tongue. “That just seems like lazy police work. Come on, you know that’s hardly concrete. I was diagnosed as schizophrenic with religious delusions. I saw angels everywhere.”

Cas flips through the file in his hands. Winchester’s father was in the army, and there were at least ten twenty-year-old ER reports of injuries that were almost definitely not accidents. That and his string of arrests, no wonder he’s so familiar with how the system worked. Winchester’s not stupid, Cas is sure of that, and won’t be revealing anything that he doesn’t want them to know.

He groans, running a hand through his hair. He hates this part. He knows Winchester, can predict exactly how this interrogation will go, and knows they’ll have nothing at the end of it. Maybe he should go look over the crime scene photos again; there’s got to be something that links Winchester, besides the fact that he had a room at every hotel where a victim was found. He drives a pretty distinctive car; Cas remembers seeing it in the hotel parking lot, after seeing it described in so many APBs connected to Winchester’s name. Maybe someone saw it outside one of the victims’ houses, or –

“Where’s that whiz kid you’re working with?”

Cas glances up, his head cocking to the side as he watches Winchester. The suspect’s gaze is wandering around the room, moving on the wall behind Uriel, and then over, closer and closer to the mirror shielding Cas. With a blink, Winchester’s eyes are on him. It’s not direct eye contact, but it’s still enough for Cas to feel something tug at his gut, an instinct that he needs to get away and end this.

“Who’s that?” Uriel asks, his voice passive.

Winchester doesn’t look away from the mirror. “I want to talk to Novak. He’s supposed to be some genius profiler, right? Well, let’s see if he can profile me.”

Uriel’s eyes flick over to the mirror. Cas sees Winchester smile, and his suspicion is confirmed: Winchester’s known he was here the whole time. “Agent Novak doesn’t usually get involved with interrogations,” he says. “He’s not much of a people person.”

Winchester leans forward, falling into one of the many shadows that drape over the room. “He’s not an agent,” he says, his voice suddenly rough.

He’s researched Cas. His name has been all over TattleCrime for the past few weeks, but that’s a blog for law enforcement and murderers. His name wouldn’t stick with a normal person who happens to stumble across an interesting article. Uriel glances at the window again and Cas nods, even though his superior can’t see him. He tucks his folder under his arm and enters the main hallway, turning the corner that leads to the interrogation room doors.

“Mr. Winchester.” Cas leaves the door open behind him. “You can leave us, Agent Uriel,” he says, perching over the man’s shoulder until he vacates his seat. Cas sits down immediately, his eyes on Winchester. Uriel leaves without another word.

“You wanted me,” Cas says. “Here I am.”

Something in Winchester shifts. He sits up a bit straighter, as if good posture is his gift to Cas. One of his father’s teachings, no doubt. Stand at attention when in the presence of a superior officer.

But it’s his eyes that catch Castiel off-guard. Winchester’s eyes, a bright green that Cas didn’t notice until he was right in front of him, are open wide, softened at the sight before him. He looks at him with an adoration that’s almost religious.

“Castiel,” he says. The warmth in his voice makes Cas shift uncomfortably. He’s had more than a few interactions with murderers, but hearing his name in the mouth of one, soft and well-worn like it’s sat on his tongue many times before, is unsettling.

“Special Agent Novak,” Cas corrects. Establishing a connection with a suspect during interrogation can be beneficial on occasion, but not like this. Not when Winchester seems to know everything about him, when Cas can’t figure out the source of his admiration.

Winchester leans forward, but the gesture isn’t menacing when it’s directed at him. He seems excited, like he’s getting closer to a conversation he wants to swallow down whole and keep forever. “Did you like it?”

Cas blinks. “Did I like what?”

Winchester glances quickly at the window, then grins at Cas. “I heard you were good. You’re supposed to be the best. So I left you a puzzle. I wanted – I thought that if you could solve it, you could solve me. You can understand me, Castiel.”

He can understand. But that’s not a positive thing – the weight of understanding Winchester is eating him whole. Winchester is oblivious to the pounding pain in Cas’ head, a steady beat that’s been growing stronger since the angel-maker was brought in. He’s the one that put the pain there, but he’s blind to it, the pressure so thick Cas can taste it.

“Tell me about the puzzle,” Cas says, wishing he’d brought his pills into the room with him. “What does it have to do with me?”

Winchester’s brows tighten. “What do you mean? The angels. I made them for you. You didn’t know that? You didn’t figure it out?”

He can feel the pressure build in his head, knocking on his skull and demanding entrance to every part of him. “You made the angels to watch over you while you slept.”

Winchester sighs, one side of his mouth twitching up. “Yes. My mother always told me that angels were watching over me. Well, she told me that until she died. Something pinned her to the ceiling and set her on fire. It was a demon. My brother and I hunted it down and killed it a few years back.”

Cas checks his notes. On November 3rd, 1983, less than six hours after their house burned to the ground, John Winchester was arrested for the murder of his wife. He was let go because of insufficient evidence and stayed under the radar for the next twenty-something years, but four and a half years ago, he was found dead outside a hospital in Missouri. He’d been run over by a car, then dumped at the entrance to the ER. Cas remembers seeing that the driver was never found. He glances up at Winchester; his smirk is gone, replaced with a twist that Cas can’t quite decipher. He looks curious, as if he knows what Cas is reading and wants to know what Cas thinks about it. What Cas thinks about him.

“Your brother,” Cas says. “What did he think about angels? He was what, six months old when your mother passed away? Did you ever tell him they were watching over him?”

Winchester shakes his head. “No, never,” he says. “I never needed to. Angels watched over me and I watched over Sam. That’s just how it was.” He shifts in his chair. “They always liked me better,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ve always had a…more profound bond with angels than Sammy did.”

Cas isn’t informed enough to speak to the schizophrenia, but the religious delusions part of Winchester’s diagnosis seems accurate. He decides to play to it, still not understanding how the puzzles were meant for him. “So why the sudden need for angels? Was your bond with them weakening?”

He’s not usually this direct with unsubs, but Winchester seems so desperate for Cas to understand. He seems happy to share his motives – as long as Cas seems receptive, he thinks.

Winchester shakes his head. “Sammy told me to. He said if I find angels to watch over me, then I’ll be safe until I can find you.”

Cas pauses. “Sam speaks to you?”

“Yeah.”

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mr. Winchester –“

The suspect looks surprised. “Dean. Please.”

Cas usually isn’t one for intimacy, but the man across from him seems to crave it. “Dean. I see that you were very cooperative during your time at the state hospital, and your comment earlier makes me think that you’re aware of your diagnosis, and the reality of it.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. I’m schizophrenic. So what?”

Cas hesitates. “So – You are aware that your brother committed suicide a year ago.”

Dean holds his gaze for a moment, and then lets out a bark of laughter. “Is that how it was reported? No, no. See, this is why I don’t trust cops. He became a vessel for Lucifer, just so he could take back control and force Lucifer back into the cage in hell he came from.”

“Your brother’s autopsy records are on file. He was found in a cemetery in Detroit, a single gunshot to his head. You were found at the scene.”

Winchester shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not what happened. I was there, yes, but the gunshot, that never happened. It was just me when the cops got there. Sammy’s body was in the cage, and they took me straight to the loony bin as soon as I told them what happened.”

Cas nods, looking receptive but not believing a word of it. He’s not sure if the delusions formed before Sam’s death, or if Dean developed them as a way to cope with the fact that the pull of a trigger, a quick burst of energy, was more powerful than his brother’s love for him. It’s not an issue he’s qualified to push, so he lets it go.

“So the angels,” he says, operating off a half-formed theory. “They were meant to keep you safe until you found me. Because I’m the ultimate protection. Your guardian angel.”

The spark is back. Dean sits up straight again. “That’s not quite how I’d put it, but if that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Cas folds his hands and leans his shoulders forward. It’s a trick he learned a while ago, one he saw Dean utilizing earlier on – leaning into the conversation, looking excited to hear what the other person had to say. It often helped to avoid anger in situations like this, when one participant is a few steps behind the other. “How would you put it?”

Winchester cocks his head. It’s a mannerism Cas often finds in himself, and the reflection is unsettling. “Castiel, do you not know what you are?”

His headache rolls to the back of his skull. “What am I?”

Dean looks hurt, and for the first time, Cas can see the haphazard stitches barely holding him together. “You’re Castiel, angel of the Lord. I need you. You’re supposed to save me, to – to save me from perdition.”

“It’s my job to save you from losing your soul?” Cas runs a hand over his face. His profiles are so rarely wrong, but there was no way he could have predicted this. A religious delusion with him at the center – this is far beyond his expertise, and he has no idea if his questions are helping or hurting Dean’s delusions. But he needs to solve this, figure out why this man’s been creating angels.

And suddenly, he understands.

Angels are his comfort, a constant source of protection and love. The sort of things a mother provides. But without her, his need grew and grew, and after a while, praying wasn’t enough. He needed to see them, feel their presence – because the angels would lead him to _his_ angel, the one who would put aside everything to keep him safe. The one who would care for him as he cared for Sam.

So he killed, using his perfect design to get Castiel to understand how much he needed him. He created a puzzle for Castiel to solve, and all the pieces were blatant reminders of Castiel’s true form, the one Dean needed him to assume.

“You wanted me to see who I am,” Cas says. “What I should look like.”

“You’re taller than I imagined,” Dean says. “And your hair’s a little shaggy. But I know it’s you. You’re the one that was sent for me. It’s almost perfect.”

“Almost?” He can hear Uriel in the hallway, getting agents ready to run in if Winchester attacks. Cas had almost forgotten that other people were listening in on their conversation. But Dean holds up his hands, wiggles his fingers, and holds onto the arm rests, a clear sign that he’s not going to hurt his angel.

Then Winchester grins at him, all teeth. “I’d love to see you with wings.”


End file.
